


In My Place

by DormantAllure



Series: Sisterverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance, some fluff included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DormantAllure/pseuds/DormantAllure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are having their first proper lovers’ quarrel. Luckily John has the world’s foremost Sherlock interpreter at his disposal. A sequel to "Intransigent".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Intransigent", which you would probably want to read first. This is dedicated to my wonderful friends who never fail to encourage me in my strange literary endeavours and who gave me the best birthday presents a fangirl could hope for. To quote Sherlock himself in freeform: I’m a ridiculous person whose only redeeming feature is my taste in friends.
> 
> After “Intransigent” I didn’t really want to let go of Sherlock’s sister. I’m glad many readers enjoyed her company as much as I enjoyed bringing her to existence.
> 
> Comments and feedback is much appreciated, as always.
> 
> \----------------------------------------------------------

“Boys? You decent?” Mrs Hudson’s sharp soprano floated in through the doorway. “Sorry to barge in like that you you see, I’ve let in Octavia Alice- - “ The sight that greeted her when she used her master key to open the door to the upstairs flat was not strange on the 221b Baker street scale but an average person might have raised an eyebrow. Good thing that she was not an average person, then.

Dr John Watson lay on his back on the carpet, hand stretched far above his head, holding a rather battered-looking smartphone. Laying sprawled on top on him was Sherlock Holmes, who seemed to be climbing up the aforementioned doctor like a vine in order to reach said phone. “Goddammit Sherlock, you’re not getting it until you learn to bloody behave!” Although the scene might have looked like it had playful undertones, John’s voice held a stern, indignant edge.

Sherlock looked up, looking somewhat flustered but mostly frustrated, and clambered up from the floor. “I don’t confiscate your phone whenever I feel like it,” he complained.

“Yes you do and you know it.” John made a point in placing Sherlock’s phone on the kitchen table behind where he was standing.

Mrs Hudson took this as a cue to show Octavia Alice Sherrinford Holmes into the flat. “Come in, dear, I’m sure the lads will have their lover’s spat sorted in no time at all.”

Once John Watson would have vocally opposed such characterisations of his and Sherlock Holmes’ relationship. That was before he realised that whatever he had been looking for in the arms of a seemingly never-ending line of women had been right there in front of him the whole time. Right at home at 221b.

Not that being in a relationship of any sort - friendship or romantic - was easy in any aspect. Sometimes John wished that they had gone through the usual formal courtship phases - at least then he would have had some sort of a roadmap of what to expect. But had he wanted reliable, easy to predict or ordinary, he would have declined Sherlock’s original offer of flatmateship. 

He’d been a goner the minute those blue-green-whatever eyes had homed in on him. It was a bit embarrassing, really, how adamantly he himself had remained oblivious to the fact that had been quite easy to deduce for everyone else in the vicinity - that he’d fallen head over heels for the tall detective. It had been the arrival of the third Holmes sibling that had acted as a catalyst for certain epiphanies. 

It had been such a surreal, weird and wonderful experience to learn that Sherlock gone through the very same kind of unrequited pining. Sherlock, who so loudly had boasted living by the credo that feelings were a distraction, an unpleasant and completely useless bodily function best avoided. To John, such a conviction did not seem as illogical as it once had, now that he had learned of what sort of experiences Sherlock had had in the past when he had acted on such feelings. Octavia had not shared many details with John, only a vague summary, but it had been enough to help John realise what a thin ice he was skating on, embarking on a relationship with Sherlock.  
Mrs Hudson seemed to think it best to leave. She flicked a wrist as a farewell wave to Octavia, and quietly let herself out of the flat.

John picked himself up from the floor as well, and he seemed somewhat calmer than he had been a minute prior. He dusted his trousers and pocketed the phone. Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and descending onto the sofa in a flurry of blue dressing gown.

Octavia put down her handbag and claimed an armchair. “What’s this about, then?”

John cleared his throat. “This idiot here thinks he doesn’t need to ask my permission to text around whatever photos he manages to snap of us.”

Octavia stifled a laugh. “Probably the same photo I got a couple of days ago.”

“You too, huh?” John shot an icy glance at Sherlock, who tried to look innocent. “You and everybody else. I’m sure Lestrade’s got his already printed and hanging in the lobby. Mycroft is one thing, Sherlock, he probably sort of needs to know and the man mostly can keep a bloody secret but all of our friends. Bloody hell. This is why you need to talk to one another when you’re in a relationship.”

“During our time together, you have expressed appreciation for my honesty and what you consider to be endearing quirks. How was I to know this was a particular occasion when it was more prudent of me to behave unlike my usual self?” 

Octavia smiled sadly at John. It wasn’t her place to start lecturing her little brother about social etiquette. It didn’t take much hanging around Sherlock Holmes to realise such confrontations never worked. Bless John and his almost naive optimism to think he could actually alter some aspects of what made Sherlock, well, Sherlock. Like his utter lack of discretion.

“You think you're so bloody clever but sometimes you’re so incredibly thick. Would it really never cross your mind that I might not want it announced to the whole nation that yes, indeed, everybody knew I wanted to shag Sherlock Holmes before I realised it myself. Hello world, Three Continents Watson has transformed into Two Genders Watson.”

Sherlock’s expression suddenly changed from annoyed to something very different. To John it almost seemed like hurt, which Sherlock clearly was trying to hide. “You mean you wish to keep us a secret, then? That being involved with me somehow lowers your social standing?”

John sighed. He was still too angry. “That’s not what I meant, it’s just that you never - -“ 

Sherlock opened his mouth to interject a protest, but Octavia suddenly stood up, looking rather determined. “Right. You - -” She pointed at her brother, “Shut the hell up. And John: me, you, pub. Now.”

John tore his coat from the rack somewhat more violently than was reasonable. “God, yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

John felt infinitely better after getting some fresh air. He didn’t fancy trying out any new places and Octavia hadn’t seen his usual haunts so they settled for a rustic pub on a quiet side street near the apartment. “Sherlock even join you for a pint?” Octavia inquired after John’s expression had lost most of its murderous sulk.

“Sometimes he tries, yeah.”

Octavia laughed. “Tries? As in orders a pint which he never finishes?”

“Right. You could feed half of Afghanistan on half- or uneaten meals and drinks he’s ordered through the years. He just gets sort of carried away.” A slight smile began to play on John’s features as he recalled what Sherlock was like when he was on a case. The enthusiasm was contagious, the very air between them sparkling with energy. On hindsight some of that electricity may not have had much to do with murder and mayhem at all. John wondered if Sherlock had realised this as well. 

“It’s great to see you again, you know,” John offered as he opened the door for Octavia. “I knew you were taking the train in today, so I’m sorry you had to walk into a row like that.”

“Don’t worry about it. The company was looking for someone to scout out some stuff in London and Edinburgh and I jumped at the chance. I know it’s rather soon after my last visit, but I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with Mum before since he was out of town. She’s a pretty sought-after lecturer. For her retirement sure doesn’t mean sitting on her laurels. Plus I wanted to catch up with you guys. After getting that vague text and photo from Sherlock I figured out some of what had happened. My brother in an actual functioning relationship - this I needed to see for myself.”

“I don’t know about the functioning.” They settled down at the counter. The pub was half-empty, mostly student-looking younger folk seated in the booths in groups, music not playing too loud. It was early evening still. They ordered two pints. 

“How was it that you actually got together?”

“I don’t know exactly. It just sort of happened. Like it had already happened before, in a way. I don’t know how to explain it, really. I’m seeing a whole new side of him, now. You wouldn’t believe it from what you saw today, but he’s happy, he really is.”

“How’s that, then?” Octavia inquired, receiving her drink from the bartender.

“Bloody scary!” They laughed. “He follows me around and participates in everything, like a cat that keeps following you around the flat and even though it has no idea how to do any household stuff it sort of sticks his paws everywhere.”

“I bet he’d love that comparison.”

“I’ve been described in so many nasty ways by him through the years it’s high time I paid him in kind.”

“He’s got me against the wall, you know - -“ John opened, until he realised the double entendre. “Drives me crazy, I mean. Not that he didn’t manage that before, but it’s different now.” John sipped his pint. “I know I am being quite sensitive about what people think about him, about me, about us, but it’s all so new. I don’t think anybody else than Sherlock Holmes could just waltz into a thing like this, shrug and embrace it like it was the easiest thing in the world. I don’t know how to not care! Or not be embarrassed by the annoying stuff he does and how it reflects on me. I’ve chosen him, which in other people’s minds says something about me. He has bloody messed up my whole life, my whole idea of who I am and I’ve let him, haven’t I?”

“People will find out eventually. What will you do then?”

“I know they will. The only thing I hate that Sherlock is taking away all my control over how and when it happens. Anyway, enough of me complaining. How’re you?”  
“Fine. Nothing new, really, apart from my brother sending me strange photos. I saw Mycroft the other day, you know.”

John raised his eyebrows. He knew there was no love lost between Octavia and the older Holmes brother. “How was that, then?”

“As you would expect. He is courteous, but bursting with compulsive curiosity over my life and the need to contain me somehow as an asset of his. He’ll never change, but I know how to keep him at an arm’s length now. He is rather baffled by your relationship, you know.”

“Really? I was under the impression he has been predicting this from the start, right down to those happy announcement quips right when we first me. I didn’t even know he was Sherlock’s brother at that time. Black cars, warehouses - I thought he was some sort of a criminal kingpin, a notion which Sherlock shot down rather quickly.”

“He does love that James Bond cloak-and-dagger routine of his. No, really, all this has proven to be quite confusing for him. He never expected this level of commitment from Sherlock.”

“I’m not sure how Sherlock would even define commitment. I don’t know if he’ll eventually grow tired of me if I’m no longer useful or unpredictable or amusing or accommodating to his idiosyncrasies.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, John. He loves you, you know.”

“It doesn’t always feel like it. Sure, he seems to enjoy all the non-work related stuff we’ve taken up doing lately -“ John almost blushed which Octavia thinks looks rather adorable, “-but I really don’t know what I can expect from him. With anyone else when you’re in a relationship certain parameters are in place and you know how to function but him it’s like trying to romance an alien. One minute he doesn’t acknowledge I even exist and the next moment he’s ready to literally lock himself in the bedroom with me for days on end. Sorry, too much information.”

“Adults here, eh? I’m just happy he’s decided stuff like that can happen to him as well and not just to other people. Judging by your blog’s comment section you’re not a stranger to discussing stuff like this with a sister?”

John grimaced. “Harry’s quite nosy.”

“If you wanted easy you wouldn’t be where you are,” Octavia offered. 

John spread his arms in resignation. “I know, I know. But does it have to be THIS hard the whole time?”

“Have you ever considered that the reason he’s telling everyone is that he’s happy and proud and not just because he’s an obnoxious idiot? Which he is, of course, bless him, but still.”

John swallowed a mouthful of beer. It was rather easy to dismiss many things Sherlock did as just Sherlock being himself. Perhaps John really ought to observe more. 

John’s phone beeped and he fumbled around his jacket. “Guess who,” he retorted before finding the phone in his breast pocket. He turned it so that Octavia could read the message blinking on the screen.

**John? SH**

He couldn’t resist.

**Sherlock?**

The reply came in a matter of seconds. **Yes, very clever. Where have you disappeared with Alice? SH**

Annoying, eh?

**I won’t continue this conversation if you keep mocking me. SH**

John sighed and began replying. **Lamb &Flag on Gormley St.**

**Will you be long? SH**

John raised his brows. This was new. He glanced at Octavia. She shrugged.

**Why? You want to wrestle some more and continue being a prat?**

No reply came.


	3. Chapter 3

“Have you thought about returning to England?” John inquired. They were nursing their third drinks, having slowly sipped through the previous ones. John had no idea what the proper time would be to return home. Maybe such a thing didn’t even exist. Why did he keep looking for rules, a basic framework in something as chaotic as his and Sherlock’s life?

“Not really. Immediate family notwithstanding, I never felt like there was much holding me here. If I wanted to carve a niche for myself, develop some sort of a career independently without Mycroft’s well-meaning meddling or our parents’ somewhat suffocatingly patronising support I would have to do it elsewhere.”

“It’s still weird how Sherlock and Mycroft call you Alice but none else does.”

“It’s sort of childish, really, wanting to reinvent myself by using a different first name. After awhile it sort of stuck, though. Alice feels more like a pet name than vice versa.”

The pub was getting busier and a resident dj was gathering a crowd around the tiny dance floor into. A surprisingly good turnout for an average Tuesday. John clunked his glass onto the countertop. He grabbed Octavia’s hand. “Come on.”

Octavia did not fight him but looked somewhat puzzled. “You want to go dance?” She followed John onto the tiny dancefloor. Beegees’ Tragedy was blasting.

“Not the most romantic choice of songs,” Octavia commented as they somewhat awkwardly assumed a passable positioning of hands and feet.

John smiled somewhat allusively. “I didn’t know there were more than one Holmes that I was supposed be romancing.”

Octavia blinked. John Watson could, indeed, put on the charm. 

“I’m just kidding. Just trying to get over how weird this is. I’m supposed to be embarrassed to do stuff like this with Sherlock, for Godssake, not you. Here I am, spending an evening with a fine specimen of womanhood - -”

Octavia couldn’t help a giggle. “Thank you.”

“- - And all I keep thinking is whether he’s really upset and what he’s doing and whether I should just get a taxi and go some and sort everything out because Lord knows Sherlock can’t be left on his own devices for more than seven seconds before blowing something up and - -“

“Calm down, Watson. He can take care of himself for a moment. How long have you two been cooped up in that dusty apartment? Any new cases?”

“Must be close to a week, now. No cases. Sherlock has gotten some texts, but he doesn’t move a muscle for anything less than an eight on a scale of one to ten because according to him I demand too much of his attention now to spare any time for sixes or sevens.”

“You don’t seem like the demanding type.”

John shook his head. “I think we all can agree on who the demanding one is. Lestrade did have a little something for us last week but I suspect he’d been scraping the bottom of the barrel just to get Sherlock and me somewhere together after the text Sherlock sent him. He probably wanted to make sure it wasn’t a Moriarty plot, an experiment, a sign that Sherlock had relapsed or anything else sinister.”

John twirled her around. Octavia realized he could hold his own on the dance floor. She wondered is Sherlock might have been tutoring him.

“How was it, then, making your first appearance on a crime scene?”

“You remember Donovan?”

“Not really.”

“Nasty lady working under Lestrade?”

Octavia thought for a moment and then nodded. “I think so, yeah. What of her?”

“Before it was just ‘freak’ and ‘psycho’. Now it’s freak slash psycho AND toyboy slash lapdog.”

Octavia raised her brows. “And Lestrade allows this?”

John sighed. “I don’t know what their deal is or if there even is one. Sherlock looks like he can handle it, but I feel bad watching him being subjected to that diatribe every time we consult. Usually he’d got good comebacks, but Donovan engaging me into it as well seems to throw him off a bit. I’ve been meaning to have a word with Lestrade about it but I bet Sherlock will have me for a Sunday roast if he thinks I’m mollycoddling him in that way.”

“Probably best leave it.”

They danced in silence for half a song. John mulled on how strange a sensation it was, having a perfectly charming woman in his arms but no desire to play the game, so to speak. Strange, but somehow liberating. He had someone. An important someone. A confusing, amazing, handsome, lovely, exciting and a little intimidating someone.

Octavia and Sherlock’s build was quite similar: tall, lanky, dark compared to Mycroft. Octavia’s gardening hobbies made her complexion less alabastery than Sherlock’s. And their arms felt eerily similar. John grinned quietly when he realised that Sherlock had quite girly arms underneath those immaculate tailored shirts and swishy coats. 

The song ended and as though on cue, his phone beeped.

**John, please come home. I don’t care if you never want to be seen publicly with me. SH**


	4. Chapter 4

John hastily paid for his cab ride, and hurried upstairs as quietly as he could manage, trying to avoid rousing Mrs Hudson.

He entered the apartment, hung his coat up and wondered why it was so quiet. The tv was on, the weather channel on but on mute. Striding through the living room towards his bedroom, he nearly missed spotting Sherlock who was sprawled on the couch, fast asleep.

John was taken aback. Sherlock rarely slept during the night. Something had obviously exhausted his mental energies. Just waiting for a reply for a text hardly qualified, did it?

Stepping closer, John realised Sherlock had fallen asleep with the phone in his hand. Waiting for a reply? After Sherlock’s achingly pleading message John had bid a quick farewell to a very understanding Octavia, agreed on a brunch the next day and hailed a cab.

“Just try and be patient, John,” Octavia had pleaded, “I know this coming out of the closet thing is horrid but consider that Sherlock does not even wish to acknowledge that such closets exist. Social constructs like that are to him something he chooses to ignore because he’s deaf and blind when it comes to navigating them. You demanding he abide by the same rules as everyone else is like demanding he speak a language none’s ever taught him.”

John grabbed a grubby shawl from the floor - one Sherlock usually only employed when he was sick or borderline hypothermic. John spread it over Sherlock’s slumbering form, nervous that he might wake up. He didn’t. 

 

 

John tiptoed back to his own room. He paused in the doorway. Something was different. Things were in their right places, but everything looked neater. More symmetrical. John had the nagging feeling that someone had been in his room. Sherlock did that all the time, but after all his regular visits the room was always in greater disarray than before. Not it seemed that whoever had been here had deliberately arranged things in a certain way.

John stripped off his socks and grimaced at the chilliness of the floor. He opened a drawer to find a new pair for the morning, but paused as he looked into the depths of the drawer.

All his socks had been rolled into neat balls and arranged in groups according to colour. 

He opened another drawer. His shirts, usually haphazardly thrown into whatever closet or drawer still had space, were now neatly folded into two stacked drawers.

John shook his head. What was this now? A favour? Such a twisted and inverted form of revenge that its deeper meaning eluded John? A possessive gesture?

He opened another drawer, looking for his pyjamas and deciding he would get to the bottom of this once the alcohol content in his blood was significantly lower and his energy levels replenished. 

His pyjamas were nowhere to be found. 

Right. If this was how Sherlock intended to start winning relationship arguments - nicking his stuff - he had another thing coming. John prepared to storm into the livingroom and roll Sherlock onto the floor in order to wake him up. Just as he was striding down the short staircase, ready to execute his plan of continuing their argument right then and there, an idea occurred to him.

Instead of barging into the living room, John stalked into Sherlock’s bedroom. He lit the small side table lamp, and his heart took a somersault.

His pyjamas were right there, gingerly arranged onto the side of the bed where Sherlock himself rarely slept. 

This was a gesture that was somewhat easier to interpret. John shook his heard incredulously, sparing a moment to marvel at the inner working of his insane flatmate? Lover? God forbid, boyfriend?

Feeling somewhat more obedient that he would have liked, John slipped into the pyjamas and claimed the space lovingly reserved for him. Yawning, he grabbed Sherlock’s forlorn laptop from the edge of the bedspread. He had one more thing to do before letting sleep claim him.

He opened his blog and signed into the publishing function. He finally knew how to get it over with, once and for all, on his own terms. 

_**Wednesday 14th September** _

_**John H. Watson is no longer a bachelor.** _

 

\- The End -

 

_  
_

_I am not a bow and arrow_  
 _Or a slingshot at your side_  
 _So please don’t try to use me_  
 _To make others treat you kind_  
 _\- Kyla La Grange: Lyssa_


End file.
